Dew on the Kaner flower.

Scent of Mogra floats in the air.

The koel perfects it pitch while a squirrel nibbles on a piece of watermelon.

The path is lined with bougainvillea and strewn with champa.

I inhale the earthy scent as water hits the parched soil

The tiny beetle scuttles under a dry leaf.

I look up and the sun is already at its best, the blue juxtaposed with gulmohar orange. 

A distant cry of a peacock beckons the rain

I make my way back home, a fresh glass of mango shake awaits.

Droplets streaming down the empty glass and an argument left hanging.

Kesar or Alphonso.